


Cry Havoc

by Joyce (Alysswolf)



Series: Absalom [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Competant Villain, Conspiracy, Gen, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alysswolf/pseuds/Joyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason begins to craft a plan to draw Mulder into the Project</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Havoc

**Author's Note:**

> "...a king shall appear, harsh and grim, a master of stratagem. His power shall be great, he shall work havoc untold..." (Daniel 8:23-24)

"We have miscalculated." Jason let his words fall like stones into the silence, sending ripples of unease into the dark paneled room. Decaying clouds of smoke eddied and swirled around him as he stepped into the inner sanctum of his friend's lair. A touch of fear exhilarated his soul. His friend was as dangerous as the Oracle at Delphi and nearly as mysterious. He wondered if the ancient Greeks kept the Oracle for the sheer thrill of trying to outwit the fates it prescribed for them.

Reclining in a nest of writhing smoke tendrils, the smoker looked up at Jason, "Really?" He paused to blow another thin twisting line of smoke to replace one that was fading into nothingness. "And exactly how did we manage this?" A dry smile twisted his lips for an instant and was gone as another serpent of smoke rose to join its brethren.

Jason ignored the question and walked over to the small table in the corner of the room just to the right and behind the smoker's desk. Ebony and ivory chessmen stood in staggered array upon a mahogany and oak chessboard.

This had been Jonathan's pride and joy, Jason reflected sadly, a specially commissioned work of art. The chessmen were exquisitely carved down to the finest detail of robes and swords and staves of power. So like Jonathan to transform the ivory pieces into a fantasy kingdom ruled by a philosopher king and his warrior queen facing the dark hordes opposing them. 

"I remember Jonathan telling us that comparing Fox Mulder to an errant sun hurtling across our heaven pulling allies into his orbit was only part of the greater truth," Jason mused aloud, his voice soft with memory.

The smoker swiveled in his chair to give Jason his full attention. Idle smoke-rings, disturbed by his movement swirled about his head like striking serpents. He said nothing, letting his silence compel Jason to continue. Jason felt the pressure against his will. His friend used silence like other men used a knife. It was an extremely useful tactic with lesser men, but Jason was not so easy to manipulate. 

Jason smiled and considered extending the silence to heighten the tension in the room. His friend was not the only one who appreciated the exhilarating rush that came from pitting his will against an equally dangerous opponent. The Others, those old men of the Consortium, were too impatient with any threat to their perceived power. Their only answer to opposition was to eliminate the threat; alpha sheep content to rule other sheep."I remember when Jonathan commissioned this set," Jason continued, slyly noting the slight sigh of contentment from his friend. "He said we needed something to remind us who of the real players were."

The smoker nodded, allowing Jason to draw him into this game of reminiscence. With a sudden breath he scattered the obscuring smoke and leaned back to indicate that Jason had his undivided attention, for now.

Jason lightly brushed the crown of the ivory king-piece with his fingers, lingering for a moment on the fluted scroll held in one hand in place of a scepter. He didn't need to pick up the piece to see the portrait of Fox Mulder carved into the ivory nor did he need to examine the queen whose resemblance to Dana Scully was more than a passing coincidence. Jonathan had been a master of many games. Jason wished he knew how many gambits his old friend had actually set in motion before his death and whether they would be a help or a hindrance to his current plans. "Jonathan warned us that we did not know all of the pieces on Mulder's side of the board. The white queen was our gift to him and our first, perhaps our greatest mistake."

"Old news, Jason. You said there was a new miscalculation," the smoker prompted. A vexed sigh escaped him as he realized he had played into Jason's ploy. He gave Jason a brief nod of acknowledgment to indicate that the score was now even. 

"We incorrectly identified a player who is not the pawn we took him to be. Jonathan selected many players for this game. Some we know about, most we do not. Mulder has strange allies in strange places. Those who follow him for their own reasons, while dangerous, are reasonable risks. But Jonathan set into motion another player under our very noses and we did not even notice," Jason nodded towards the framed picture on the mantel. Three young men, faces afire with intense ambition and passion, stared back at him in frozen images now lost in history.

"And this unknown player is?" the smoker asked with a touch of frost chilling his tone. Jason understood the anger and touch of fear that chilled the air. Ignorance of who was what in this game was tantamount to death. His friend prided himself on knowing to the nth degree who the players were and what role they played or even what role they thought they played. The idea that there was another serious player on Mulder's side that they had overlooked was cause for alarm. Mulder's moves were calculated on known variables. A rogue piece could destroy everything.

"The King's bishop." Jason picked up the ivory bishop, dressed like a warrior mage wielding a heavy staff pointed out across the board at the opposing ebony army. He stared at the piece, trying to see if Jonathan had left them a clue to his intrigue. A rueful smile twitched across his lips for an instant as he realized that under the great miter, the bishop was bald. 

"Damn you, Jonathan. Even in the grave, you move us around like your damn chessmen," Jason muttered to himself.

"Apparently our newest recruit is one of Jonathan's players. Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner is more important than we realized."

"Nonsense. He is a petty bureaucrat with delusions of importance," the smoker snarled. 

"Delusions or not, he is vital to our purpose. He is a key to Fox Mulder's soul," Jason continued evenly, ignoring his friend's rising irritation. It was difficult to argue when he wasn't entirely sure himself of the reasons for his sudden insight, but he felt the impact of his revelation redefine the game.

With an effort, the smoker restrained an angry dismissal of Jason's theory. Pride warred with dispassionate assessment of Jason's skills and lost. Better to concede the pride than to risk losing everything. Unwilling to trust his voice not to betray his irritation, the smoker waved at Jason to continue.

"Skinner has protected Mulder at every turn, even beyond all reason unless he was specifically set in place for that very reason. I doubt if he is even cognizant of his purpose. Jonathan was a genius. He could read men's inner motivations and what drove them to certain actions and knew exactly where to place them so they would be of most use to us at a later date.""So you are saying Skinner was put into place by Jonathan in order to protect Mulder? Rather far-sighted of him. Still.... It would explain much." The smoker smiled. "How delightful that our upright assistant director should owe his present position to the very people he holds in contempt, but how is this useful to us?"

"Simple. We have merely forgotten one of the basic laws of physics - objects in motion affect each other. Mulder attracts allies who are pulled into his orbit and follow his path. What we forgot is that he is also affected by them. We have seen his devotion to Agent Scully, calculated it, depended on it until Skinner stepped in." Jason paused and carefully placed the bishop in front of the ivory king-piece, blocking the check threatened by the black knight.

The smoker followed the movement on the chessboard with interest, his eyes flicking over the new arrangement, calculating actions and reactions of all the various pieces with the intense concentration of a chess master.

Jason moved a rook to threaten the bishop. He gave his friend an apologetic glance and shrugged. The entire incident with the bees had been badly handled. His friend had been too intent on inflicting a humiliating lesson on Skinner, and Jason's own underlings had mishandled the cleanup operation by using their own initiative to frame the Assistant Director. That particular act of sheer stupidity had cost them their lives. Jason made their deaths an object lesson to his other operatives – initiative was fine, if it worked. If it didn't, then expect no mercy.The smoker acknowledged Jason's apology and his own folly in allowing a personal vendetta to interfere in his long-term objectives. He had come perilously close to losing ground with the Consortium elders, but a quick cleanup and an absolute blackout on information disseminated to the public eased them back into placid self-satisfaction.Trusting in his instincts that his reading of the subsequent puzzling events was true, Jason picked up the ivory king-piece and took out the rook threatening the bishop. His shoulders set in faint lines of tension, Jason turned to face the arguments he sensed were building.To his surprise, his friend was nodding with sudden understanding. 

"I did wonder why nothing came of that particular ploy. I merely assumed Skinner had added one more act of sabotage to his repertoire. Interesting. And how do you propose that we use this bit of insight?"

"My sources report that Agent Mulder went to Assistant Director Skinner's apartment that night. Due to the oversight of my agent," Jason winced as he accepted responsibility for the stupidity of that fool, "no listening devices were placed in the Assistant Director's apartment. An oversight, I might add, that has been corrected, Jason added with a deadly cold tone. "Still I can speculate. An hour later the murder weapon was tested at the FBI Crime Lab, but no identifying marks were found on the weapon. The Assistant Director did not have time to destroy the evidence before Mulder showed up. Therefore, our very own Fox Mulder conspired with his superior to destroy vital evidence in an ongoing investigation of a policeman's murder."Jason let his friend absorb the speculation in silence. His own mind was churning out stratagems and maneuvers designed to take advantage of this new information.

"Then you are proposing that for some reason Mulder is willing to put his honor and career at risk for Skinner?" the smoker asked with a slight incredulous lilt to his voice.

"What I am saying is that we have been focusing on Agent Scully to the possible detriment of other targets. Perhaps we should give the Assistant Director some reward for being such a good dog - perhaps a milk-bone biscuit in the form of a slight remission in Agent Scully's condition. Draw the man deeper in until his soul cannot twitch without our permission." Jason's voice was cold as death. He had been ordered to damn Fox Mulder's soul. If the way to that damnation was through the souls of everyone close to him, then at least Mulder would have company in hell.

"Do as you please, Jason. Just bring Mulder to me." The smoker blew a haze of smoke over the chessboard obscuring the pieces before leaning back in obvious dismissal of his lieutenant. 

Jason inclined his head in a slight bow then left the room. With the proper care and precision to details, Skinner would make the perfect lure to draw Mulder into the shadows. Jason relished the exhilaration of facing an opponent worthy of his personal attention. It was always entertaining to corrupt the soul of an honorable man, almost as entertaining as drawing men burdened by a conscience into the abyss. Damnation was a tricky game, but the rewards were exquisitely satisfying. 

************

Mulder's Room George Washington Medical Center  
4 days after the attack

 

The sound of someone entering his room stirred Mulder reluctantly from a hazy dream where he drifted among chartreuse drug-laced clouds. He lay still, eyes closed, trying to determine if it was worth the effort to open his eyes. For three days he had ruthlessly ignored everyone. The only exceptions he had made were for Scully and his doctor. Now, only Scully could pull him out of his isolation. He was mortally tired of hearing his doctor repeat the same tired platitudes: 'you're doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Mulder. These things take time and patience.' Well, time he had, but he was fresh out of patience.The steady thrum of the pump on the respirator was a constant reminder that his progress was being measured in inches. Lava still burned in his throat, held at bay by the drugs, but lurking, waiting for a cue to take the stage again. The sound of the respirator was becoming more familiar to him than his own heartbeat. He was tired of the restraints that held his arms down. Scully had explained the reasons for them and, intellectually, he understood those reasons, but he wondered if she understood how desperately he hated being restrained. 

Soft sounds rustled in his ears as the visitor settled into the chair beside his bed. It had to be Scully. None of the hospital personnel had reason to move that quietly. Not that they exactly made a lot of noise, they moved quietly and efficiently around the machines that hooked him to life, but they did so with a brisk efficiency rather than a careful consideration not to disturb him.

He started to sigh against the rhythm of the machine and felt his chest tighten in protest. For a moment he panicked as he fought the machine. The lava rose up to choke him and his hands curled into claws fighting the restraints, striving to reach up and tear the tube out of his throat before he choked to death.

"Shush, Mulder. It's alright. Just relax. The more you fight, the harder it is to breathe." 

Scully's voice, slow, steady, and calm, gentled him out of his panic. One small hand brushed his hair away from his forehead in long, slow sweeps. Unconsciously he moved his head into her hand, like a cat arching into the hand that stroked its back. Her other hand reached down to slip into his much larger one. Gradually Mulder relaxed into the rhythm of the respirator. He gave Scully's hand a gentle squeeze to let her know he was alright and opened his eyes.

"God, Mulder, you've got to stop doing that," Scully admonished him with a shaky smile. Her eyes were clouded with worry. 

He hated the machine and the restraints, hated the dependency they forced on him. His pleas notwithstanding, the doctors were adamant - until his throat healed enough to withstand the pressure of breathing, he was going to remain hooked up to the respirator.Mulder gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, part apology, part resigned resentment at his imprisonment. 

Scully gave him another smile and watched as his eyes responded. She never ceased to be amazed at how responsive his eyes were. Over the past three days, his eyes had spoken volumes of his pain, his anger and above all his abiding concern for her. If he was thrall to her smile, then she was indentured to his eyes. 

Mulder made a tapping motion with his right hand, indicating he wanted the chalkboard they used when a shrug and a glance wasn't enough to convey his meaning. Scully undid the restraints and handed him the board. She wished she could make the nurses understand that when he was completely awake and aware, Mulder didn't need the restraints. It was only when he came awake and tried to breathe against the rhythm of the machines that he tried to free himself of the tracheotomy tube running into the base of his throat. After one such incident when he came close to succeeding, the word had come down from on high - he would remain in wrist restraints until the respirator was no longer necessary.

Freed of the straps, Mulder flexed his arms and indulged in the sensuous luxury of raising his arms over his head and stretching like a cat. His shoulders protested the sudden change in position with audible creaks and snaps. Catching sight of Scully smothering a laugh at the cacophony of sounds, Mulder smiled and snapped a few of his upper vertebrae in a loud rejoinder.

Scully tried to turn her smile into a censuring look, but failed. This was no cure for Mulder's anxiety about his future, but, like him, she had learned to seize these moments and hold onto them. Without a word, she handed him the chalk. 

//Any leads? //

Scully shook her head. Mulder had told her about a disk he had retrieved from one of his insane marauding ventures. When she went to check on it, there was no disk. To add insult to injury, his hard drive had been systematically trashed. Byers had been quite profane about the damage. To the best of her knowledge, Scully had never really heard Byers swear before. He did so in a highly literate, yet highly profane terms that amused and entertained her. Frohike's comments had been simple, earthy and to the point. 

"No, Mulder. No one saw anyone enter your apartment. No one heard anyone moving around," Scully sighed. "Skinner suspects the assault on you was more than a simple random attack, but his team of experts says otherwise and we have no evidence to force them to keep the investigation open. The D.C. police are in charge now."

Mulder almost yielded to the temptation to hurl the chalkboard against the wall, but realized that would only bring in the nurses and Scully would be hastily evicted while they put him back in restraints. Damn Cancer Man. He was so close. The disk was his best hope of getting enough information to deal with that SOB. Now it was gone, like all the other evidence he ever managed to lay his hands on. Torn out of his hands, just as Scully was being ripped from his life.

"Whatever was on that disk, Mulder. Whatever you found or think you found, it's not worth your life," Scully pleaded against the angry familiar despair she saw in the back of his eyes. She had so little time to make sure Mulder would commit to life. Her own doctors were grimly honest with her about her dwindling health, just as Mulder's was bluntly optimistic about the excellent chance he had of speaking again and returning to a normal life. How strange, she thought, that she could accept her sentence of death while Mulder regarded his sentence of life as simply one more burden to bear.

//It was worth your life//

Mulder didn't look at her as he handed her the chalkboard with the words of his confession plain to see. He had failed. 

Scully took the chalkboard in silence. Mulder lay still, his head turned away, his hands clenched at his sides. This was no boyish pout, this was the despair of a man who had seen his last hope ripped from his hands. She didn't know what to say, what she could say to ease his pain. She had no hope to spare him. His fierce hope had warmed her soul these past few weeks when her own hope had dwindled into darkness. Perhaps, though, she could still give him something of herself to rekindle his inexorable hope. If her soul was dry, was there not yet a part of her heart still burning? 

"I'm still here, Mulder. As long as I know you believe, I can believe that somehow, together, we can come through this," Scully whispered softly as she leaned down and returned the kiss he had given her in the hospital outside Penny's room. Her lips brushed his forehead, sending fire cascading through the cold ashes of his soul, igniting hope and passion in a bonfire of resolve.

Mulder grabbed her hand and held it to his lips in a kiss at once both chaste and passionate; a knight re-pledging himself to his lady. Round one might belong to the dragon, but he was not going to concede round two without a fight. Mulder released her hand and smiled; a smile peculiarly his own - part mischief, part simmering passion, part quixotic madman. 

//I believe.//

Scully smiled at his simple proclamation of trust and hope. He never ceased to amaze her. Resilient beyond all reason. Capable of a simple faith in the truth that even the blackest despair could not quench. She fought against the temptation to hate the men who were trying to destroy that faith. Her own faith, overshadowed by her science for so many years, was returning as she journeyed deeper into the mysteries of death. Soon she would travel where Mulder could not follow, must not follow until his journey was complete. She prayed that she could leave him enough faith to survive her death and continue the search for their truths without her.

Scully started to answer him when she saw Mulder's eyes grow wild and he began struggling to sit up. Tubes strained and tangled as he thrashed about. A horrid ragged croak followed by a trickle of blood burst from his throat. One arm tried to thrust her aside while the other hand stabbed at the doorway. For an instant, as she fought to restrain him, Scully thought she saw a shadow in the doorway. When she turned her head a moment later, no one was there. 

Mulder collapsed against the pillows, spewing blood from his mouth, his eyes furious and frightened as he tried to make her understand what he had seen. Still furious he fought the drugs and the restraints until he was pulled back into the drug-induced netherworld. Scully had to be warned. That thought accompanied him into the haze until more drugs sapped all conscious thought away and he was left floating in a world where time coiled around him in an endless loop with no beginning or end until the memory of the event flowed into the memory of the attack and was lost.

Jason moved swiftly away from the door as nurses poured into the room in response to the alarms. The risk was minimal, but had to be taken. So, Mulder could identify him as his assailant. Interesting. Possibly even useful. Not as useful as confirming that the unique bond Mulder shared with his partner was as strong as ever, however. 

**************

Later that night"It's not your place to question, doctor. You have the vial?" Jason's voice was cold and dry as an Arctic breeze.

"Yes, but... I can't just administer this to a patient without knowing what is in it." Protests, feeble and uncertain, like the final struggles of a fly sennsing the imminent arrival of the spider.

"It's rather late for an attack of conscience, doctor. Perhaps you would prefer explaining to the medical board exactly why you have been systematically administering experimental drugs to your patients without FDA approval?" Jason paused, counted slowly to twenty-five, listening to the doctor's panicked breathing. Such a foolish man to believe the Consortium's promises of immunity. He was a useful man only as long as he cooperated. 

"I thought not. Just administer the contents of the vial in her regular vitamin supplement treatments. I think you will be pleased by the results. That is what you want, isn't it doctor? The well-being of your patients?" Jason mocked the doctor who had his breathing under control and was waiting in silence to hear his instructions like the obedient servant he was. Jason despised him. So eager to be on the cutting-edge, so greedy for personal aggrandizement that he failed to see the sword that hung over his head.

"Oh, and by the way, doctor, you will be mystified by the improvement. If I hear one word from you that suggests you claim any responsibility for the improvement . . . You have, I believe a two-year-old son. . ." Jason tried to keep from laughing at the use of such tired, old threats, but this doctor seemed overly impressed by the melodramatic. It was all he could do to avoid lapsing into an imitation of Edward G. Robinson. 

"Yes, I understand," came the bitter reply. "She is due in tomorrow for her weekly checkup. I'll administer the dose then. Is that all?" 

"For now." Jason hung up the phone content with the doctor's struggles against the web that bound him to Jason's purpose. Little men with grand ambitions were so useful to the Project.

Now it was time to set the middle game in motion. With the white queen occupied and the white king momentarily in check, it was time to test the white king's bishop in battle. A certain Assistant Director Walter Skinner was about to learn the price of a soul. 

Jason sat in the darkness and smiled.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my editors, Viv Wiley and Meredith


End file.
